The grossness of the crush is now subdued.
All reasonable fears are laid to rest.
To act in former fashion would be rude.
The gods are pleased, for I have passed the test.
The gods indeed have troubles of their own,
Without having to oversee the fling
Inflicted on a flame so fleetly flown
So far above the highest church bell’s ring.
For rod and chime together have not rung
As resonantly as the recent clang
And clamor of the clueless clutz who clung
To one whose nail is blade, whose tooth is fang.
For surely she’d have bit me on the cheek
Had I her hand in marriage sought to seek.
© 2020 A. Pope